


Like Waves(We Crash Together)

by ProofOfConcept, wilddragonflying



Series: Collaborations [93]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27731179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProofOfConcept/pseuds/ProofOfConcept, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: The Monster may have been something more powerful than any god, but its body drops like a human’s, hitting the floor with a heavy finality. A golden mist rises from it - and then implodes, like a miniature dying star. Quentin can only watch in shock as Ora darts forward, checking the body - and when her wide, disbelieving eyes meet his, Quentin grits his teeth and whirls to face the man who killed the Monster."Whatthe fuck, Eliot?"
Relationships: Brian/Nigel (The Magicians), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Collaborations [93]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/41362
Comments: 3
Kudos: 76





	Like Waves(We Crash Together)

The Monster may have been something more powerful than any god, but its body drops like a human’s, hitting the floor with a heavy finality. A golden mist rises from it - and then implodes, like a miniature dying star. Quentin can only watch in shock as Ora darts forward, checking the body - and when her wide, disbelieving eyes meet his, Quentin grits his teeth and whirls to face the man who killed the Monster. 

" _What_ the fuck, Eliot?"

"It worked," Eliot says, softly, disbelieving. He's still holding the gun. He drops it quickly, and then says again, louder: "It worked!"

"You _shot_ him!" Quentin says, still stunned, and more than a little angry. "What the fuck did you shoot him with?"

"God-killing bullet," Eliot says. "Figured if that wouldn't work, nothing would."

"You risked the Monster escaping on a half-formed plan?" Quentin demands. 

"I would have risked a lot more if it kept you from throwing your life away!"

"That wasn't _your -_ "

"Gentlemen," an unfamiliar voice cuts in; when Quentin turns to look, three people are standing in the doorway. Fogg, who looks vaguely apologetic, an unfamiliar man, and Zelda. The other man speaks again. "I'm sure that this is a fascinating argument, but if you could join us?"

His heart sinking down around his toes, Quentin exchanges a look with Eliot - 

And then the world goes black.

* * *

Brian starts his day at the local coffee house as always; even on weekends, he can't resist the siren call of expertly-brewed, not-mass-produced caffeine. He grabs his usual muffin - banana nut - to go, and wanders down the street towards the bookshop. He wastes an hour or two wandering the shelves, searching for something that he can incorporate into the next unit, before he heads to campus. He got lucky this semester and doesn't have any early classes; his first one starts at eleven o'clock. The flip side is that he doesn't have more than fifteen minutes' break until four o'clock, but with the material that he gets to teach, Brian doesn't mind much. 

His students are about as enthusiastic as he can ask for, with the usual students who participate, and those who just sit in the back and browse Reddit or whatever they're more interested in. He presses on with his lesson, though, and makes it through his office hours afterwards. He gets home just in time to eat dinner and get a shower before _Criminal Minds_ comes on, and he spends a couple of hours in front of the television before he goes to bed.

 _It's not an exciting life,_ Brian muses as he slides under the covers and grabs a book. _But it's safe._

* * *

"I hate these events, don't you?" Simon asks as he sidles up to the drinks table. Brian jumps, but manages not to spill the red wine he's pouring into his little plastic cup. As a matter of fact, Brian does hate these stupid faculty events, the entire Humanities staff crammed into one room to rub elbows and get far too drunk and eat olives off of cocktail sticks in the name of _team bonding_ , but he is glad to see someone from his own department. Simon gives him a sheepish grin and pops a cube of cheese into his mouth. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you."

"No, you're fine," Brian assures him with an awkward laugh as he finishes pouring and - carefully - sets the bottle back in its spot on the table. "Yeah, no - these things just seem kind of. I don't know, pointless sometimes? We never interact with the other departments so, what's the point?"

"I think they think we're snobs," Simon says. He produces another cube of cheese from somewhere and bites into it. "You know, because we're English? They talk to each other."

Brian makes a face, wandering over towards the snack table. "Yeah, maybe. At least there's free food, though."

"And free eye candy," Simon says, nodding towards a leggy blonde across the room. "Jessica from Poli-Sci is something else."

"She's gorgeous," Brian hums. "I kind of like Damon, though - the Ancient World History professor. Love the hair." The man in question has a head of curly black hair that looks artfully, yet effortlessly, styled, and Brian may or may not have daydreamed about running his fingers through it in a variety of situations. 

"Eh," Simon says around the olive in his mouth. "Whatever floats your boat, I guess. I wonder if--"

The door opens, and in slips a man Brian has never seen before. He's dressed like he should be in a nightclub, in tight leather pants and a black shirt so sheer it's almost see-through, and the wild mass of dark curls on the top of his head are only accentuated by a close undercut. He hesitates just inside the door, looking around as though to make sure his entrance has gone unnoticed although it definitely hasn't, and then visibly relaxes, straightens his shirt, and makes a beeline for the drinks table.

"Holy shit," Simon whispers.

Brian nearly chokes on his tongue in his haste to agree "Where the _hell_ did he come from?" he whispers, following the newcomer with his gaze. "I've never seen him around."

"I've heard of him," Simon murmurs, his eyes never leaving the stranger. The man in question is in the process of pouring himself a generous cup of wine. "Last I heard, though, he wasn't in the country. He's a bit of a wild card - and he's coming over. Oh god."

"Gentlemen!" the man cries as he draws up to them, his smile wide and gorgeous. "Fresh blood. I'm Nigel."

Luckily Brian hadn't taken another sip in the time it took Nigel to cross the room. "Brian," he says. "Brian Huston."

"Simon Fell," Simon offers, but Nigel doesn't even look at him.

" _Brian?_ " he asks, smirking. "It suits you, actually. Really goes with the whole stuffy professor vibe."

Brian raises an eyebrow. "'Stuffy professor vibe'?" he echoes, ignoring Simon's snicker. 

"Oh, you know it works for you," Nigel says. He takes a sip of his wine, considering Brian over the rim of the cup. "Let me guess. History?"

"Close," Brian chuckles. "English. Queer Lit, Shakespeare, and Literary Heroes specifically, at least this semester."

Nigel's eyes light up with keen interest, and he gives Brian a slow, deliberate once-over. "Queer lit. Of course."

Brian raises an eyebrow. "And what's that supposed to mean?" he asks, lacking any real heat. 

Nigel reaches past Brian to pluck a cocktail stick from the table, and slides an olive off the end of it with his teeth. "Just that it makes sense," he says. "It goes so well with your image."

"Right," Brian drawls, unwillingly charmed. "Who are you, exactly? I haven't seen you around campus, even."

Nigel pulls a face. "Oh, I don't work here," he says. "My father is friends with the Dean, and he's supposed to... keep an eye on me." He flashes Brian a sharp grin. "Means I get to crash these little parties and check out the goods every once in a while."

Brian doesn't know where his next words come from - maybe the wine, or the way Nigel's gaze sends a delicate shiver down his spine - but he lifts his chin, raises an eyebrow, and asks, "'The goods'? Do you mean the courses or the... _staffs?_ "

Nigel smirks. "What do you think?" he asks. "It's been a while since they've hired someone so interesting, though. Maybe I've been missing a trick, not showing up the last clue of years." He glances at Simon. "No offence."

Simon snorts. "None taken." He grabs a couple more cocktail sticks and tucks them into his palm. "I think I'll leave you to it."

Nigel flutters his eyelashes at him. "So kind."

Brian offers Simon a grin when he looks his way; once Simon leaves, though, Brian immediately turns his attention back to Nigel. "So, you think I'm interesting?"

"Oh, look at you. You're so wide-eyed and innocent," Nigel tells him. "So much more _alive_ than any of the other boring bastards in your department. Of course you're interesting."

Brian snorts. "I'm a single, bi English professor who spends his free time writing lesson plans, binging trash reality TV, and reading," he says dryly. "I'm _something,_ but I don't think interesting in the right word."

"I have eclectic tastes," Nigel assures him. "I like the quiet, nerdy types."

Brian's mouth curves into something a little too soft to be a true smirk. "Well, good thing I like the club-slash-punk types."

Nigel's answering smile is definitely a smirk. He leans into Brian's space, his lips brushing his ear a little as he speaks. "Something tells me you're a little bit of a freak."

Brian grins, heat sparking and curling low in his gut. "Wanna find out?"

Nigel drains the last of his wine. "I absolutely do."

* * *

The sex is, in a word, _phenomenal._ Brian doesn't bother taking Nigel home, but this party _is_ in the conference room on the History department's floor, and his office is only one floor up; at this time of night, the floor is totally deserted, no one to see Nigel press Brian against his door as he fumbles for the key, to hear the door open, watch them slip inside. They don't bother with the lights, since there's a lamp post just close enough outside that they can fumble their way to a corner Brian knows can't be looked into from the door. They don't get completely undressed, but as soon as Nigel fishes the condom from a pocket, Brian drops to his knees. He tugs Nigel's pants down, praises whatever deity might exist for the sheer magnificence that is Nigel's cock, rolls the condom on, and then Brian swallows him down. He pulls out every trick he knows, does his best to drive Nigel crazy as quickly as he can, and when Nigel tugs at his hair, hissing out a warning, Brian only presses closer. The condom keeps Nigel from spilling in his mouth, but there's something heady, almost addictive, in the feeling of his cock throbbing as he comes, knowing that _Brian_ did that. 

Nigel hauls Brian to his feet, kisses him deeply, almost furiously except for the surprising touch of gentleness about it, and switches their positions, pressing Brian back against the wall. Nigel cages him in with his body, reaches down to undo Brian's belt and slacks, pushing them just far enough out of the way so that he can pull Brian's cock out of his pants. He jerks Brian off, murmuring filthy things in between kisses, and Brian would be embarrassed about how fast he comes, except he can't even find a second brain cell to make his mouth work. 

Brian points out the tissue box on his desk when Nigel makes a face and steps back, and can't help a quiet chuckle at the stiff couple of steps Nigel takes to grab some tissues. He cleans himself up and disposes of the condom, and then comes the awkward part of every hook up: leaving. 

Except... It isn't awkward, with Nigel. It feels natural - if Brian ignores the sense of not-quite-deja-vu - and as they slip back into the hallway and down the stairs, Nigel brushes against Brian, giving him a wink before he disappears down the hall. Bewildered, Brian heads for his own car, and it isn't until he reaches in to pull out his car keys that he feels the scrap of paper that Nigel slid into his pocket. There's a phone number on it, along with a drawing of a dick, and Brian can't help but laugh as he programs the number into his phone with an eggplant emoji, firing off a text critiquing Nigel's art skills.

Nigel texts back an hour later, saying he thought that Brian was an English professor, not an art professor, and then they just... never stop talking. They also don't stop fucking, but their hook ups are interspersed with text conversations that ramble from topic to topic, and Brian looks forward to those as much as, if not more than, the actual sex. Nigel even starts staying, just a little while, after they hook up. They never talk about anything serious, and usually he only stays long enough for a nap before heading back out, but he still _stays._

Then Brian invites him over for dinner before they hook up one night - tells Nigel, truthfully, that he'd been stuck in his office helping a couple of panicking seniors long past his office hours usually ended - and Nigel accepts. Brian bitches about incompetent advisors panicking his students while they eat Chinese, and then Nigel fucks him so well that Brian couldn't even name one of Shakespeare's plays if he'd had a gun to his head afterward. Dinner gets added to their routine, then, and before Brian knows it, two months have passed.

He announces that as soon as the thought hits in his post-orgasmic haze after Nigel sucked his brain out through his dick. "Shit, it's been two months already," he says, gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling, his hands petting absently through Nigel's hair. "How the fuck am I still not used to this?"

"Used to what?" Nigel asks, a grin in his voice. "Regular, mindblowing sex?"

"I mean, yeah," Brian says, still a little breathless. "You already know it's good, every time. But it's been _two fucking months._ Literally."

Nigel snorts. "And what glorious months they have been," he says. He stretches, yawns. "Does anyone at work know?"

"Just Simon, because he's a nosy bastard," Brian answers. "And he gave me like, the most _ridiculous_ eyebrows the day after the first time we fucked, so I told him just to get him to stop making that face and making other people stare."

Nigel chuckles. "He's probably heard way too many stories," he says. "Either that or he's a huge prude."

"Pretty sure it was the stories," Brian hums, "considering that he high-fived me."

Nigel laughs. "Of course."

Yawning, Brian shifts onto his side, his hand falling from Nigel's hair to his upper arm. "You staying for a nap?"

"I could nap," Nigel decides. His eyes are already closing. "Just for a little while."

* * *

It's a month later, and for the third time this week, Nigel has shown up at Brian's door, this time with a bag of Thai food in his hand. As they divide up the food between them, Brian does his best not to think about the fact that Nigel knew exactly what to order for him. Still, that potential weirdness aside, the atmosphere between them is easy and relaxed just like it always is.

They eat in a companionable silence, but a thought occurs to Brian as they start in on their desserts. "Hey," he says, nudging Nigel's ankle underneath the table. "Did you know there's some batshit rumors about you going around the faculty? About why you've been gone the past couple years, I mean."

"There are often plenty of rumours about me circulating that school," Nigel says with a smirk. "But do tell. What have they cooked up this time?"

"Well, my personal favorite is that you've been off fucking your way through the _Forbes_ list," Brian laughs. "There's also one suggesting you were basically living out _The King and I._ "

Nigel snorts. "That's new," he says. "I fucking hate musicals, though, so they lose a point for that."

"Oh, is there a point system?" Brian teases. "What's the best one you've heard?"

"There's been too many to name," Nigel says, dismissive. "They were convinced for a while that I was fucking the Dean himself, though."

Brian chokes on his next bite. "That old fart?"

Nigel shudders. "Not to mention the fact that I've known him my whole life. Gross." He sighs. "But you can tell them that none of their theories are correct. Or don't. That's part of the fun."

"So you haven't been off fucking your way through the upper crust?" Brian asks, affecting a casual tone. "Where have you been, then? Apparently you used to be a permanent fixture at faculty parties."

"Oh, you're getting nosey now," Nigel complains. "What's in it for me?"

"I'll give you a blowjob," Brian bargains. "And do that thing with my tongue I know you like. And you can fuck my face." He doesn't often let Nigel do that last one; Brian's gotten better about taking the majority of Nigel's cock, but if things go too fast he still gags sometimes. 

As expected, Nigel's eyes light up with interest. "Sold," he says - and then laughs. "It's really not that exciting. I was in London with my father."

"There has to be more to it than that," Brian wheedles.

"What more do you want?" Nigel laughs.

"I don't know," Brian admits. "Just... You're interesting, and I hardly know anything about you except that you are fantastic at sex, hot as hell, funny, and everyone thinks you're some kind of like, devil-may-care rebel or something."

"Please, keep stroking my ego," Nigel smirks - before he sobers. "I guess you'll find this out eventually anyway, so, fine. My father is a Lord."

Brian raises an eyebrow. "Is that... like a family who's donated a lot to the college?"

"Like an English Lord," Nigel says. "Like, disgustingly rich aristocrat."

"Like. Actual, legitimate nobility?" Brian asks, blinking. " _Seriously?_ "

Nigel shrugs. "Basically," he says.

Brian sits back in his chair. "Huh." He considers that for a moment - he could see Nigel in like, the stupid little aristocratic outfits, and he'd make them look _good,_ but that makes something in Brian's head and chest hurt, so he doesn't linger on the mental image. "So, are _you_ nobility?" he asks, looking back up at Nigel. 

"No," Nigel says. "Hate to break it to you, but I'm a bastard."

"I knew that much," Brian teases before refocusing. "So, why spend time with him? You don't really sound... fond."

"Oh God, I'm not fond," Nigel says. "I'm the opposite of fond. But he wanted to know me better, I guess. So I moved to England."

Brian nods. "Did you have the perfect England vacation on his dime?" he asks, lips twitching. 

"Absolutely not," Nigel says. "England is boring. Like, really boring. But I did make the most of it, and he did pay for all of it."

Brian grins. "And what does 'make the most of it' mean for you?"

Nigel gives him a sharp smile. "What do you think?"

* * *

The next weekend finds Brian and Nigel in a local bar called Rudy's arguing about Tim Burton movies. Nigel had dragged Brian out, insisting that he needed to spend more time out of his apartment and office, and promising that eventually, he'd work Brian up to 'a _proper_ club.' Brian isn't entirely sold on the club idea, but he's not going to complain about spending more time with Nigel, a fact he's still refusing to examine too closely. 

They get seated and order their first round of drinks - craft beer for Brian and a martini for Nigel - all while debating the merits of _A Nightmare Before Christmas_ versus _Corpse Bride._ "I'm just _saying,_ just because a movie can fit two holiday themes doesn't mean that it's inherently more - more _meaningful,_ " Brian insists. " _Corpse Bride _covered a lot more emotional conflicts than just Jack's desire for more attention and Sally's desire for Jack's attention and her freedom."__

__

____

"But you could argue that _Nightmare Before Christmas_ deals with themes of depression," Nigel presses. "That's plenty meaningful."

"So does _Corpse Bride,_ " Brian points out. "They both get points for that, so it doesn't make a difference."

Nigel sticks his tongue out at him. "Then they both get meaningful points, and I get to keep enjoying a movie that provides interesting social commentary and combines my two favourite holidays."

Brian rolls his eyes, lifting his beer to his lips. "Alright, whatever you say, Nige."

Nigel pulls a face. "Ugh, I hate that."

"What, Nige?" Brian chuckles. "Okay, how about El?"

Nigel's expression does something weird. "El," he repeats. "I like--" The lights over their head literally explode, just as the glasses on their table shatter.

Brian's yelped " _Fuck!_ " is lost in the chorus of screams and shouts from the bartender and other patrons as he and Nigel throw themselves from the bar. "What the _hell?_ " he demands, brushing glass carefully off of himself and checking his hand, which had been holding his beer bottle when it shattered, for cuts. "Lights blowing shouldn't have made the glasses shatter."

"I have no fucking idea, but I'm freaking the fuck out," Nigel says, his eyes wide.

Brian shifts a little uneasily, moving closer to Nigel, eyeing the bartop covered in shattered glass from drinks and lights. "Yeah, no, I'm right there with you. That was - That was freaky as _shit._ "

"Nothing to worry about, folks!" the bartender, or perhaps the owner, calls out across the room. He's clearly going for calm and collected, but his voice wobbles precariously with the shot. "Just an electrical short! Must have sent out shockwaves, I guess." He chuckles, low and uneasy, and Nigel's eyes widen further.

"I think we should get out of here."

"Agreed," Brian murmurs, already turning towards the door. They aren't the only ones leaving, and Brian doesn't speak until they're on the sidewalk. "'Shockwaves'? Really, from an electrical short?"

Nigel shivers, pulls his coat closer around him though it isn't particularly cold. "What other explanation is there? That was insane."

Brian frowns thoughtfully. "I don't know," he says, even though there's _something_ at the back of his mind - He shakes his head, more to clear it than anything else. "Localized earthquake, maybe? But this is New York, and none of the glasses _fell,_ and I doubt it would have made the lights fucking explode."

A high-pitched whine rings in Nigel's ear, making him wince. "I guess it doesn't matter," he says. "Let's just find somewhere else."

Part of Brian, the part that never quite gave up on fantasy even as he settled for reality, wants to push, to investigate, to research - but the more pragmatic part wins out, and he sighs. "Yeah, okay. I know a bar a couple blocks from my apartment. No fancy theme or anything, but the drinks and food are good."

"Great," Nigel says. "I'm suddenly starving."

* * *

That first night out on the town changes something in their routine; Nigel spends more time at Brian's apartment now - time that doesn't always include sex. He even stays the night, more than once, but Brian is careful not to say anything, not to draw attention to that fact. He doesn't want to scare Nigel off, not when he enjoys his company so much, not when it feels so _right_ having him in Brian's space. 

They have another light incident - Brian slips, calls Nigel 'El' again, and the power in his apartment building goes out with near-explosive force. The electricians can't figure out why, except for an unexplained surge or maybe a pigeon messing with a transformer box, but Brian and Nigel exchange looks, and Brian thinks that he should know why the electronics in this city are suddenly going haywire, that he _does_ know - 

He dismisses the thought; he's not an electrician, he's an English professor at Columbia. 

His relationship with Nigel continues to grow, both of them settling into what very nearly counts for domestic bliss over the next few weeks. They go out a few more times; neither of them call these outings 'dates,' but they're unmistakeable, and something in Brian thrills at the knowledge that Nigel wants to do this with _him._ Nigel even stays at Brian's apartment two nights in a row one weekend, and they don't spend most of the weekend fucking, but rather watching Netflix and arguing the finer points of various episodes of _What's New, Scooby Doo?_

The next weekend, Nigel shows up with his phone in hand, and announces that he's got all of the _Scooby Doo_ movies on his Prime account, and they're going to watch them this weekend. Brian capitulates easily, biting back a chuckle as he lets Nigel into the apartment. They make it through _Scooby Doo and the Cyber Chase_ and _Scooby Doo and the Ghoul School_ before Brian announces that he's hungry, and wants something a bit more filling than popcorn. Grinning, he pokes Nigel in the arm. "You're the more well-traveled of the two of us," he needles. "You must know _some_ good, simple recipes."

Nigel rolls his eyes, his expression unbelievably fond. "I hate cooking," he says, "but fine. I'll teach you how to make a shepherd's pie."

Brian perks up, interest piqued. "I've always wanted to try shepherd's pie," he says, standing up and reaching without thinking for Nigel's hands, tugging him to his feet. "What do we need?"

Nigel goes willingly, and with a laugh. "Uhh, ground beef, carrots, onions, peas, potatoes," he rattles off. "And instant gravy."

Brian frowns. "I think I might have a can of peas somewhere in the back of the pantry?" he ventures. "And I think a couple packets for the gravy. The rest should be in the fridge, except the potatoes, I know I have those in the pantry, too." 

"Perfect," Nigel says, making a beeline for the fridge. "We need two saucepans and a casserole dish, too."

"Saucepans are above the stove, and I think I have a casserole dish in the bottom cabinet next to the fridge?" Brian says, frowning as he starts digging through the pantry. "Ah-ha! Found the peas."

"Great," Nigel says, emerging from the fridge with his arms full. "Let's cook."

He puts Brian to work peeling the potatoes and setting them to boil while he fries off the meat and the onions. For all that Nigel claims to hate cooking, he's not bad at it, and they fall into an easy rhythm together. The whole thing is disgustingly domestic, and it makes Brian ache for a simpler life that neither of them can ever have.

Once everything is cooked and the potatoes have been mashed, Nigel shoos Brian out of the way while he spoons the mixture into the casserole dish and tops it with the mashed potatoes. "This is actually cottage pie," he says as he slides the dish into the oven. "Not that it matters. It's exactly the same, except shepherd's pie is made with lamb."

Brian frowns. "That's stupid," he says, leaning against the counter and watching Nigel work. "I thought shepherds were supposed to protect lambs, not eat them."

Nigel straightens up with a laugh, but when he sees that Brian is entirely serious, his expression softens. "God, I love you," he says.

Brian freezes, looking at Nigel with wide eyes. There's a ringing in his ears as he says, "What did you just say?"

Nigel's mouth works silently for a few moments, just as stunned as Brian. "I--"

Brian doesn't stay frozen for long; the ringing in his ears has gotten louder, and he has a horrible conviction that if he doesn't do something _now,_ he won't get the chance to. He stumbles forward, reaching for Nigel, and winds a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a hot and hard kiss. When they part, he doesn't go far, and ignores the ringing, which has gotten impossibly louder, and almost sounds _real._ "I lo--" 

Several things happen at once. Just like that night at the bar, the lights above their head _explode_ in a shower of sparks and glass. The glass in the oven door shatters, too, along with all the other glass in the room. The window above the sink literally cracks. And the door to Quentin's apartment bangs open, heralding the arrival of what sounds like a small stampede of people.

"What the _shit?_ " an aggressive female voice demands, just as someone else cries out:

"Get out of there!"

Apparently Brian and Nigel don't move fast enough, because they're suddenly _being_ moved, without anyone touching them - just as the microwave blows up. Brian yells, throwing himself into Nigel - and stops, watching in shock as the glass and metal shards are stopped in mid-air by one of the women, the one who looks almost achingly familiar, even though Brian's never seen her before in his life. Brian stares, dumbfounded, as the shrapnel drops from the air to land in a neat pile on the floor, and then blurts, "What the _fuck?_ "

"Exactly what I asked!" the first voice snaps. It belongs to a slight, beautiful, fierce woman who looks mightily pissed off. "Are you two fucking _again?_ "

"I'm sorry, who the hell are you, and why the hell is that your business?" Brian demands. 

The other woman, a little taller than the first, and softer, gives Brian a sympathetic look before turning to her companion. "Margo, let's get Alice in here so we can break the curse, _then_ you can yell at them."

"Fine," Margo spits. "Blondie, get in here!"

"Who the fuck are you people?" Nigel demands as a small blonde woman appears in the doorway, looking all business with her brow furrowed like she's concentrating on a particularly difficult puzzle. "What do you mean, _again?_ "

Margo wags a finger in his face. "You wait until you remember who you are. Then I'll deal with you."

"Okay," Nigel says. He takes a step back, bringing Brian with him. Glass crunches beneath his heel. "I'm calling the police."

Brian goes easily, and the look the yet-unnamed dark-haired woman gives him this time is apologetic as he feels his limbs freeze. "Sorry, Q," she says. "You'll thank me in a minute. Alice?"

"Almost got it," the blonde answers, hands moving in front of her. She doesn't look at them, though; her attention never wavers from Brian and Nigel, frozen in place, as light builds between her hands. Maybe it's his imagination, or the growing conviction that he's about to die, but Brian can almost literally _feel_ the tension in the room growing. It grows until there's no more space left for it - and then dissipates as the light between Alice's hand explodes in a miniature starburst. 

The whole world stops for several long moments - and then Quentin is released from Eliot's arms and Eliot stumbles back, away from him. "Okay," he says, his voice shaking. "What the hell is going on?"

"Oh, thank fuck," Julia sighs, throwing herself forward and wrapping Quentin in an embrace he returns more on instinct than anything else. 

"What. The _fuck?_ " he says, still bewildered, looking from Alice to Margo and avoiding Eliot - _fuck,_ Eliot - for the moment. "What the hell is going on, and why did the microwave explode?"

"It's part of a memory curse the Library and Fogg put you under," Alice says, lips twisting. "Everyone who was at Blackspire, except for me."

"Yeah, because you stabbed us in the back," Eliot snaps. "Why are you here? Does Fogg need us to save the world again?"

"I'm here because I fucked up!" Alice cries. "Okay? I got scared, and resentful, and I fucked up. I'm here because I want to fix this, I want to take down the Library."

"They've got control of all magic," Julia says, jumping in before Margo or Eliot can say anything else. "I'm exempt, somehow, I think because of the whole goddess thing; my magic doesn't come from the same place. But everyone else is restricted, it's... It's pretty bad. The Library needs to be stopped."

"Then how the hell did you break the curse?" Eliot demands. "Why should we trust you?"

"The Library never cursed me," Alice says, gaze dropping. "They just. Took me prisoner. I escaped, with the help of another prisoner, and found the records of the memory spell on the way out. I found Julia first, because she'd already broken hers. Then we found Margo, and Kady, and Penny. You two were the hardest to track down, you hadn't - rattled the cage, so to speak. Made the curse try to protect itself from your real memories too much."

"And the fact that you just used magic when the Library is supposedly hoarding it all?" Eliot sneers. "How do I know you're not working for them?"

"Enough," Margo snaps. "You two can fight it out between you later. We need to get out of here."

Alice glares at Eliot, but Quentin speaks up. "The microwave just _exploded,_ Eliot. So did all the lights in the apartment, and probably the rest of the building. Margo's right, we need to leave."

"Kady got a place from Marina," Julia says, pulling back but not letting go of Quentin just yet. Quentin's not complaining, though. "She and Penny were getting started on research there."

"Come on, El," Margo presses, reaching out a hand. "We'll get somewhere safe, and then we'll talk."

Eliot is clearly reluctant, but he takes Margo's hand. "Fine."

* * *

It doesn’t take long to reach the penthouse apartment that Kady had ‘borrowed’ from Marina. Nobody talks much as they walk through the city; Quentin is too busy trying to reconcile his last memories as _himself_ with the fantasy he’s lived out for the past several months, and he has no idea what everyone else is busy with. Probably watching for people from the Library, if the way Julia, Alice, and Margo’s gazes sweep the streets and sidewalk and alleys. He doesn’t look at Eliot, not yet; there’s something burning, hot and shameful, just behind his heart that gets worse every time he thinks of doing so. 

Once they reach the apartment building, Julia and Alice relax a little bit, although Margo clearly doesn’t until they’re in the penthouse itself. Quentin stops, blinking. “Wow,” he says. “This is… huge. How the hell could Marina afford this?”

”Black market magic,” Kady answers, coming down the stairs, Penny right behind her with Josh behind him. “Got your memories back?”

Quentin nods, and Julia tugs him further into the apartment. “Let’s walk you through what we know right now,” she says. “So we can get everyone up to speed and start planning. The sooner we can move against the Library, the better.”

Eliot presses his palm to the side of his head. "I'm struggling to process, here," he says. "You all had different, what, personalities?"

"Different lives," Kady says, grimly. "I was a detective, Penny was a fucking _DJ..._ "

"I was a Brakebills student, and Margo was a fashion magazine editor and designer," Julia finishes. "Josh was her assistant."

Eliot narrows his eyes at Margo. "Why the fuck were you two put together?"

"Probably the same reason you and Quentin were," Margo snipes. Her lip curls. "Or not."

"We weren't put together, though," Quentin points out before he can stop himself. "Eliot started out in Engl - _oh my god,_ Eliot, your _hair._ " Quentin knows he has to look as horrified as he sounds, looking at Eliot properly for the first time since they remembered and realizing exactly what Nigel had done to Eliot's hair. 

"What about my hair?" Eliot demands, reaching up to touch even as he turns to look at Quentin, also for the first time. "Oh my god, _your_ hair."

Quentin mirrors the movement, a strangled sound of dismay escaping him when he realizes how _short_ it is. "What the _fuck?_ "

Eliot rounds on the others. "Why are we the only ones that got a fucking makeover?"

"Maybe you were the only ones that needed it," Margo suggests, bitchy. "Can we please focus on the important shit here?"

Julia bites her lip, but Quentin can read the amusement in her eyes. "We do have bigger problems than your hair," she agrees. 

Quentin frowns, but then sighs. "Right, the Library. What's going on there?"

"They put a device on the fountain at Blackspire," Alice says, lips twisting in a grimace. "It redirects the flow of magic through them, except for some leaks in the pipes, so to speak, that creates ambient magic. It's how I was able to lift the curse on you two earlier," she adds, giving Eliot a pointed look. 

"Places like Brakebills get a certain amount a day," Kady explains. "Everyone else has to use these magic credit chips, basically. Except for an elite few, who have black cards, which are basically an unlimited pass to magic for whoever holds them."

"And of course, we weren't on the list when they were distributed," Margo says. "The Library is still a fuckin' fortress, and the odds of us getting into it with ambient magic alone are slim to zilch."

Quentin glances at Julia, but she's already ahead of him, and shaking her head. "My magic is still recovering," she says. "We can't bank on having goddess-level magic on our side right now. I have no idea how it's going to come back, or when."

Quentin sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Right. Okay, then." He takes a deep breath, then lifts his head. "Let's figure out how to get more magic first, then. Once we have that figured out, we can start working on how to get into the Library."

"Do we need to get into the Library? Alice asks, a little tentative. "I mean. We know where the fountain is, and with the Monster dead..."

Quentin blinks. "That's... a good point. But they've probably got like, wards and protections around whatever device they set up, so we still need a way past them." He gives Alice a smile. "That's a good thought, though; it'll be easier to get in there than into the main Library."

Alice returns his smile, and they get to work. 

* * *

When they eventually break for the night, Margo leads Eliot up to one of the spare bedrooms, and immediately shuts the door behind them. "Alright, I'm only going to ask this once: How are you, El? _Really?_ "

Eliot treats her to a beatific smile. "Peachy keen, jelly bean."

Margo hums, unimpressed. "And the fact that we found you making out with Coldwater while you both were different people isn't bothering you at all? Not even a _little?_ "

"Why would it bother me?"

"I don't know, maybe something to do with how you two ended up stuck together in another timeline in Fillory on the last quest we did?" Margo drawls, eyebrow raising. "Or maybe the way Quentin volunteered himself to be the Monster's chew toy and you immediately went for the god-killing bullet? Look, I was joking when I said maybe you two got stuck together because of the same reason Josh and I did, but..."

"But what?" Eliot asks. "Because if you're about to do anything except suggest that maybe Quentin and I are inherently incompatible, I don't think it's me we should be worried about, here."

Margo rolls her eyes. "Josh and I fucked while living our alternate lives, and it was actually pretty damn good, so we kept doing it." She gives Eliot a pointed look, hands fitting on her hips. " _You've_ always had a soft spot for that nerd, El," she says, and while her tone is exasperated, there's something soft around the edges of her words. "And if it's _more..._ Well, stranger things have already happened."

"Yeah, like you and Josh," Eliot spits. "Way to fuck with my world view, Bambi."

"Josh and I are _not_ the main topic right now," Margo says, pointing at Eliot emphatically. "You and Quentin are. What's going on with you two? You could barely look at each except for that little thing with your hair. Which is fucking ridiculous, by the way, I don't know _what_ other-you was thinking, giving you an undercut."

Eliot winces. "Well, it worked for Brian, at least."

"Coldwater's alter ego?" Margo checks. "Yeah, considering we walked in on your domestic bliss, I think it did."

Eliot shakes his head, his gaze sliding away from Margo. "I don't even know how it happened," he says. "Nigel - the guy they turned me into. He was the bastard son of an English lord, and he thought he was hot shit. He liked to party, he liked to fuck... and then he met Brian."

Margo blinks. "Sounds like they made him too similar to you," she says, light except for the way her gaze never wavers from Eliot's face. "What was Brian like?"

Despite himself, Eliot smiles. "A total nerd. English professor, just as stuffy as you'd imagine, but kind and sweet and funny. Unapologetically himself."

"So... Q, if he'd never found magic," Margo surmises, tone uncharacteristically gentle. 

"Perhaps with less of the chronic depression," Eliot says. "I-- Nigel was around him quite a bit. He didn't seem as... burdened as Q."

Margo hums. "But still, obviously not - what did you call it - 'inherently incompatible.'" She says this last complete with air quotes. 

Eliot rolls his eyes. "It doesn't mean anything," he says. "It just proves that we only work when our lives are much more simple than they are on a normal day."

"No, it just proves that you _work,_ when you get down to who you are," Margo argues. "How do you know that you don't work here? You two have never given it a shot."

Eliot flinches, looks away. "We're not those people anymore," he says. "Maybe we had a few weeks of opportunity, before Fillory and the Beast and-- and Mike. But not now."

"No, you aren't the same," Margo agrees. "But neither am I. Neither is Alice, or Julia, or Kady, or anyone else who's gone through the past clusterfuck of a couple of years. Just because you changed doesn't mean you're total strangers to each other. Besides, regular people change too, in relationships and out."

"Yeah," Eliot says, "they change, they grow apart, they become strangers to each other. Or they don't." He sighs. "It hardly matters right now. I think we have more important things to worry about than my 'it's complicated' Facebook relationship status."

"Yeah, but we've already got a good start on that," Margo says. "Baby, whatever it is between you two, you care about him - don't try to deny it, asshole, I know you. I know you won't do anything right now, but. After we kick the Library right in the nuts? You and Coldwater better talk, or I'm locking you two in a closet until you do."

Eliot rolls his eyes. "This isn't a rom-com."

"I'll make it into a goddamn rom-com," Margo threatens. "I'm serious, Eliot. Don't be a cock, you deserve a shot at happiness after all the shit we've been through. And so does Coldwater, but if you tell him I said that, I'll deny it until I die. If you two numbnuts can make each other happy, even for a while, then fucking go for it."

"Is that what you told yourself when you realised you'd been fucking Hoberman?"

Margo rolls her eyes. "No, I told myself he's a good lay, a decent person, and makes some truly spectacular weed brownies, so why the fuck not keep indulging for a while? Besides, he gives Coldwater a run for his money as a subby bitch in bed. You know how hot I find that."

"Please," Eliot says, grimacing. "I did not need to know that."

"Then don't try to turn this shit around on me," Margo laughs. She steps forward, sighing as she wraps her arms around Eliot. "I was really worried," she admits quietly, nose tucked against his chest. "When you two didn't show up right away when Wicker scried, probing the curse. Don't make me feel like that again."

"I'm sorry," Eliot murmurs. He bows his head, kisses the top of hers. "There were a few times, I guess, when we... wobbled the spell. But we didn't push it. We didn't want to."

Margo hesitates for a moment before asking, quiet and careful in a way she so rarely is, "What happened?"

Eliot squeezes her closer to him, helpless. "We were happy, Bambi."

Margo sighs, and her arms tighten around Eliot in turn. She doesn't say anything else; what can she say, in the face of that heartwrenching confession? 

* * *

The first steps, they decide, is getting more magic and more intel on the Library's fortifications at Blackspire. Their best option would be to get a black card, but those are highly prized, and if they stole one, they'd put themselves in unnecessary danger. Josh suggests a friend of his, Frankie, whose discipline is luck magic - and who is a great counterfeiter. Frankie says he can make them a counterfeit black card, but he needs magic to make it look legitimate, and they don't have any Deweys - the 'proper' name for the magic credit chips. He suggests a nearby gambling den, where a game of Push has Deweys on the line, and when Quentin finds out that it's a card game, he volunteers to go in. Penny goes with him for Plan B, grabbing the Dewey and Quentin and Travelling out, but Quentin is confident he can win this game. 

He spent years mastering card tricks of every kind, including every possible way - and even a few invented ones - of cheating at poker. He wins without a problem, after forcing an 'honest' game for the last round by using all of the ambient magic in the room.

Frankie makes their counterfeit black card, and then comes the question of who needs to go to the Library to make a 'withdrawal,' and who goes to Blackspire. "I can give you a boost of luck, whoever goes to the Library," Frankie offers. "But there needs to be bad to balance out the good, and the bad goes into, well." He pulls a teddy bear from the bag he'd brought with him. "Into this."

Quentin blinks. "A teddy bear?" 

Frankie nods. "Whoever holds it experiences all of the bad luck that's needed to balance out the good luck that the people at the Library get while they get your Deweys," he says. "If you let go of the bear, though, the spell pauses, and they stop getting good luck. So whoever goes should be able to handle themselves."

"I'll go," Kady says immediately. "Battle magic is my specialty."

"Penny should go with you," Margo adds. "In case you need a quick escape."

"What about the rest of us?" Eliot asks. "Do you want backup?"

"No," Kady says. "No offense, but this is a stealth mission, so Coldwater's out right away. Margo, you'd be a good choice, but we need to start figuring out what the Library has at Blackspire."

"Then I want Quinn with me," Margo says immediately. "She's got the most experience with the Library's magic, with her inside view and all."

"You'll need a way to get there," Julia points out. "I can handle that."

Quentin looks at Julia sharply. "Are you sure?"

Julia rolls her eyes. "Yes, Q, I'm sure. Still not up to full power, but I can handle some Traveling."

Eliot looks around at the others, something tense on his face. "Take Q with you," he says. "I'll stay behind with the bear."

"Quentin just showed his face to a seedy gambling den and cheated at cards," Margo points out. "He shouldn't be going anywhere."

"You think Castle Blackspire is going to be guarded by casino bouncers now?" Eliot asks.

"I think him being recognized isn't a risk we can take," Margo says. 

"I agree," Quentin says quietly. "We can't split the luck spell; Penny and Kady are going right into the belly of the beast, they need it more. Besides, if you have the bear, then I'm probably going to need to clean up after you." There's a hesitant, teasing note to Quentin's voice, and the glance he gives Eliot is equally uncertain. 

"Please," Eliot shoots back, "I can handle myself. It would probably be better if there was no one around to risk getting caught in the crossfire."

"I did mention that the level of bad luck you experience matches the good luck they get, right?" Frankie breaks in. "You really shouldn't be alone with the bear, dude. Josh and I need to check out the hedge witch stuff, so we can't stay with you."

"Fine," Eliot says, an edge of annoyance in his voice now. "You all go off on your big important missions, and I'll stay here with Q to babysit me."

Kady and Penny roll their eyes, while Julia gives Q a quick, worried glance. He shakes his head, though, ignoring the hurt stinging in his chest. "Alright, sounds like we're ready to go?"

"We'll come straight back here once we've got the Deweys," Penny confirms. 

"We'll try not to need too much luck," Kady adds. 

Margo tosses her hair over her shoulder. "Once Wicker and Quinn are ready, we'll head out."

Eliot sighs, and holds his hand out for the bear. "Bring it on."

Frankie obligingly hands the bear over, and the group disperses. 

Nothing happens while Kady and Penny change their clothes before heading out, nor while Julia, Alice, and Margo get their things together. Quentin and Eliot avoid looking at each other as they prepare to leave, a fact that Margo calls Eliot on, tugging him over by the bar. "Alright," she says, glaring at the innocuous-looking stuffed animal in Eliot's arms. "What are you doing?"

"Enjoying prime cuddle time with Mister Bear," Eliot says. "What does it look like?"

Margo treats him to an unimpressed look. "You and Quentin have hardly talked ever since you got back, and then you basically told him to go fuck himself when he tried to talk to you a bit ago. And why even sign up for cuddle time with that damn bear to begin with?"

Eliot gives her a flat look. "Margo, you know exactly how clumsy Quentin is on a good day. Do you think he'd survive being the target of actual bad luck?"

"With you to watch him, sure," Margo says. "Is that the _only_ reason you took the bear?"

"Margo, it's not that deep," Eliot says. "One of us had to, and Q is naturally unlucky as it is."

Margo's clearly still unconvinced, but she's stopped from saying anything else by Alice and Julia's approach. "You ready, Margo?" Julia asks. 

__Margo gives Eliot a hard look, one that conveys _be careful_ and _you moron _at the same time. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go creep on Blackspire."

And just like that, Eliot and Quentin are alone in the apartment. Eliot doesn't seem to know what to do with himself, so he settles for holding onto this stupid bear and looking anywhere but at Quentin. "Well," he says. "Maybe I should just head to my room, weather out the storm there."

"Or, you could stay down here?" Quentin suggests, more than a little hesitant. "I'm sure they won't need much luck for a while, you could stay and help me do some more research on efficient casting?"

Eliot sighs out a long, slow breath. "Come on, Q, you know I can't read."

"Well, then you can keep me company while I read," Quentin suggests, but the hesitant, almost hopeful tone has waned, a sort of desolate resignation taking its place.

"Oh, fuck you," Eliot complains. "Don't look at me like that. Fine."

Quentin perks back up immediately, though he does look sheepish. "Sorry, it's just... We haven't really even _talked_ since getting our memories back. I missed spending time with my friend."

"It's fine," Eliot says, folding himself gracefully into a seat. "Talk away."

Quentin gives Eliot a small smile, grabbing a couple of books off of the table before settling into a seat near Eliot's. "Well, we should have plenty of magic from the Deweys that Kady and Penny are getting with the fake card, but that doesn't mean we can just do any kind of spells we want; we need to save as much magic as we can, in case we need to pull out some big spells. I, uh. Only got one semester at Brakebills - not even that, really - but do you have any ideas? Any kind of principles that might help? I know you like your whole 'fuck education' look, but you're a brilliant magician and that isn't all talent."

They get a good hour in of talking about anything but the topics Eliot knows they need to talk about. It's quite impressive. Eliot gives Quentin everything he can think of that might help, for once completely dedicated to keeping their attention on the task at hand. He's pretty sure Quentin knows exactly what he's doing, but he lets it happen, a fact for which Eliot is extremely grateful.

But then Eliot reaches for a book himself, finally relaxed enough to admit that he wants to help Quentin with the heavy-lifting, and feels a sharp pain lance through his hand. "Fucker!" he cries, and drops the book to suck the skin between thumb and forefinger into his mouth.

Quentin blinks, bending down to grab the book before he speaks. "Huh. I wonder if that was normal bad luck, or if Kady and Penny ran into their first good luck," he muses. "Just... Guess we need to be careful from now on, huh?"

"Guess so," Eliot says, sitting back in his seat and eyeing the book in Quentin's hand like it betrayed him.

Quentin doesn't quite manage to suppress his smile. "No more books for you, then," he says. "Would hate to make you suffer the agony of more than one paper cut at a time. Just be careful washing your hands later today," he teases.

Eliot rolls his eyes. "I'll be fine."

Quentin doesn't quite look convinced, but he doesn't say anything else as he turns back to his books. 

They work in a companionable silence for about another half hour before Quentin's stomach interrupts them, growling loudly. He flushes immediately. "Guess I, uh. Forgot to eat earlier."

"What else is new?" Eliot says, laughing as he gets to his feet. "Books always come before basic necessities. I'll find something."

"Be careful, don't drop any plates on your head," Quentin calls after him, his grin clear in his tone. 

"I'll do my best," Eliot calls back, unable to help the fond warmth in his chest as he heads into the kitchen. It really should be nothing at all to reach up for the cabinet that holds their chips and any other easy snacks, but of course nothing can go right for him today. The moment he pulls the door open, the shelf inside collapses, and the entire contents of the cabinet rains down on his head.

There's silence in the apartment for a couple of heartbeats, and then: "I'm uh, guessing from the lack of swearing, that the shelf didn't land on you? Just the snacks."

"Just the snacks," Eliot confirms with a sigh. He bends to scoop up a bag of chips and walks away, leaving the mess on the floor behind him. "I hate this already."

Quentin's expression is sympathetic. "Welcome to my life from ages eleven to fourteen, when I had growth spurts at odd times and couldn't control my limbs. Eventually figured out how to keep the mess to a minimum, but. I broke more than a few cabinet doors."

"God, I can't imagine what you were like as a teenager," Eliot says, although he definitely can. He tosses the bag to Quentin and sits back down. "You're clumsy enough now."

"I never went more than two days without a bandaid," Quentin laughs, catching the bag. "At least now I can go a week."

"Thank God you didn't get stuck with the bear," Eliot says, relaxing back into his chair. "Where were we?"

They get significantly less work done this time before the bad luck hits Eliot again. They even do everything they can to avoid it. "I've reached the point," Eliot says with a sigh, "where I'm almost willing to get up and make a cup of tea - but I feel like going anywhere near boiling water would be a mistake right now. Do you mind?"

Quentin smiles. “Not at all,” he says, marking his place with a scrap piece of paper and getting to his feet. “You want to sit there and look pretty or come keep me company in the kitchen, make sure I make it right?”

Eliot grimaces. "Fine, but if I land on my face it's your fault."

Quentin rolls his eyes, but his smile doesn't lessen as he heads for the cabinet with the mugs and tea. "You want green, herbal, black, Earl Grey...?"

"Herbal," Eliot decides. "Something soothing."

"Herbal it is. How does... this chamomile, lavender, honey mix sound?"

Eliot smiles. "Like it would be wonderful with a generous splash of bourbon in it."

Quentin laughs at that. "Alright," he says. "Let me refill the electric kettle."

Eliot watches while Quentin makes the tea up for both of them, and it doesn't take much for them to decide that it probably isn't safe for Eliot to carry his own mug back through to the living room. Quentin takes both of them, and Eliot follows him at a safe distance, which turns out to be a smart move when Eliot trips and almost brains himself on the edge of a bookcase. He manages to catch himself, though, and makes it back to his chair unscathed. "I hate this so much," he says cheerfully.

"I know," Quentin says, sympathetic without being patronizing. "Hopefully the tea will help."

"The bourbon certainly will," Eliot says. He leans forward to pick up his mug from the coffee table, and just as he's leaning back, cradling the mug between his hands, the legs of his chair snap.

Quentin yelps, a reflex more than anything else, and is unable to do anything but watch as Eliot's tea - thankfully not _boiling_ hot, but still too hot to be comfortable, surely - goes all over him. "Um." He blinks, sets his cup on the table. "Let me grab a towel, don't move. You might put your hand down on a splinter or a nail or something."

"I think this is going to need more than a towel, Q," Eliot says, resigned.

Quentin bites his lip. "I'll grab a change of clothes, too."

Eliot huffs and gets to his feet. "My hair is bad enough without having tea and bourbon matted into it," he says. "I'm going to get a shower."

"Are you sure that's smart?" Quentin asks, concerned.

"Who the fuck knows?" Eliot asks. "Stand outside the door if you want."

"Okay, but only because you can't let go of the bear," Quentin says, expression turning determined as he carefully sets his cup of tea on the table. 

Eliot takes his time on the stairs, but he manages to make it to the top unscathed. Quentin is his faithful shadow as he grabs a towel from the closet and heads for the bathroom, and almost walks into him when Eliot stops in the doorway. "I'm fine," he says. "If I need you, I'll shout."

Quentin clearly thinks about arguing, but he just nods. "Okay. I'll stay out here, but don't lock the door, just in case."

Eliot rolls his eyes, but his expression is fond. "Okay, Dad."

Quentin reaches out and shoves at his arm lightly. "Excuse me for worrying about you," he sniffs. 

"Hey," Eliot says, laughing, "no violence. With my luck, I'd probably break my neck."

Of course, he spoke entirely too soon. Showering while keeping his grip on a small, stuffed bear proves tricky, so he mostly sticks to holding the bear out of the shower with one hand and washing his hair with the other. He's even mostly successful; his conditioner isn't smoothed as evenly as he'd like it to be through what remains of his curls, but it's not a bad job, all told. It's as he's climbing out of the shower that it all goes to shit. The shower curtain wraps itself around his legs, and he wobbles precariously for a long moment before he crashes to the floor, bringing the curtain and the shower rail down with him.

Quentin's through the door before Eliot even hits the floor, and he immediately lifts the rail up, adjusting it so that he can start trying to untangle the shower curtain. "Don't drop the bear," he says, and starts working on the curtain itself, which Eliot has somehow managed to put an entire leg _through._

Eliot just moans pitifully into the cold, slick tile beneath his cheek. "Son of a _bitch_."

"I know," Quentin says sympathetically, tugging the curtain from under Eliot's shoulder. "Hopefully Penny and Kady will be back soon, you can drop the bear then."

Right on cue, there's footsteps in the hall, and then Penny and Kady themselves appear in the doorway.

"What the fuck?" Penny asks.

Eliot, naked and wet and half being held up by Quentin, starts to shiver.

"What the fuck, yourself!" Quentin snaps back. "Get the hell out of the bathroom, Jesus. El, you can drop the bear now."

The bear hits the tile with a wet _thwack_.

"This is kinky, even for you, Coldwater," Penny says, but he turns away.

Kady lingers, frowning. "Is he okay?" she asks.

"Does he _look_ okay?" Eliot snaps.

"Nothing his pride won't recover from," Quentin says. "All the way out of the bathroom, please and thank you. Let him get a towel and go get dressed."

Once they're alone again, Eliot straightens up, snatching his towel up from the floor with a wince. "No permanent damage, but I'm going to be sore for a few days," he deduces as he secures the towel around his waist. He sighs. "I'm good, Q, you can go."

Quentin hesitates. "You sure?" he asks, something soft and concerned - more than little friendly concern, at any rate - in his gaze.

Eliot shudders away from it. "I'm fine," he says. "Go get the update from Kady and Penny."

Quentin's gaze shutters. "Alright," he says. "Meet us downstairs when you're dressed, then, I guess."

Eliot gives him a strained smile. "You bet."

* * *

Everything happens rather quickly after that. Once Margo, Julia and Alice get back an hour or so later, they all get down to business and work out a plan. For once in their ridiculous, overly-complicated lives, it's kind of easy. They break into Blackspire, destroy the siphon, and put a Goddess-strength bubble around the Fountain to keep the Library or anyone else from ever fucking with it again. They even make it back to Marina's apartment with enough time to spare to ward the place up the ass before the Library can realise there's something wrong and think to come knocking.

It's far from over, they all know that. Even with Julia's literal goddess powers on their side, the Library has far more resources at their disposal. They'll find them eventually, and they'll try to punish them or exact revenge or whatever the fuck else. And that's before Fogg and everyone else who hates them come into it. But for now, they can rest.

It takes all of two days for Eliot to go stir crazy. For all that he once loved the Cottage, living in such close quarters with all of these people is starting to grate on him a little. Even his beloved Margo, and her weird and frankly unnerving obsession with Josh, is getting to be a little much, and Quentin... Well. Eliot hasn't spoken to him since they got back.

So he goes out. He gets dressed up, piles on all the wards and protections he can, and goes out. He has nowhere in mind, really, just lets his feet carry him as he wanders the streets of New York, as familiar to him now as his hometown ever was. Still, when he finds himself outside of a bar he's never been to, it takes him a moment to orient himself. He's definitely never been here himself - but _Nigel_ came here with _Brian_ a few times. Great.

He doesn't linger long on the sidewalk before heading inside, the overcast skies giving way to a steady drizzle. He goes straight to the bar and orders a scotch, neat, and then heads over to the table _Nigel and Brian_ used to snag for themselves every time they came in. Again, his feet carry him of their own accord, so it's only when he's right on top of the table that he realises it's already taken. Taken by--

" _Quentin?_ "

Quentin startles, drink sloshing in his hand as his head snaps up. "Eliot? What are you doing here?"

"Having a drink," Eliot says, holding up his glass which is - empty, fuck. "Obviously."

"Right," Quentin says, tone flat. "Out of all the bars in New York City, you just _happen_ to walk into this one."

"I was nearby," Eliot says, defensive. "I could say the same thing to you."

"I came here on purpose," Quentin says, blunt. "Because the mosaic wasn't an option."

Eliot blinks. "What?" he asks. "Why would you want to go there?"

Quentin's expression hardens. "I don't know, Eliot, maybe because I actually had a full, _happy_ life there? I know it was awful for you, but we did end up living the beauty of all life." He pauses, takes a drink, and then mutters, "Or maybe that was just me."

Eliot just... _gapes_ at him, and when he blinks again he's surprised to find his eyelashes wet. "Q," he whispers, lost. "Q, please."

Quentin doesn't quite slam his glass down, but it's a near thing. "Please, _what,_ Eliot?" he snaps. "I don't know what the fuck else you want from me. You made it clear you didn't want to remember the mosaic, then you _shot_ the goddamned Monster, and we ended up - " He has to stop there, swallowing hard enough that Eliot can see his Adam's apple bob as he shoves himself to his feet. "And then you didn't talk to me for two weeks except for one day, where I thought... I thought maybe we could go back to at least being friends." He takes a step away from the table, away from Eliot. "And then you just _happen_ to end up here, of all the goddamned places in New _fucking_ York you could have gone." Quentin stands there for a moment, breathing heavily, and then he fishes his wallet from his pocket and tosses some cash on the table. He looks at Eliot, opens his mouth like he's going to say something else - But he closes it, shakes his head, and walks to the door. 

Eliot stands there for what feels like an eternity, so many emotions warring inside of him that he couldn't hope to name them all. A few, though: anger, hurt, fear, sadness, disgust. Shame. So much shame.

But also, glowing faintly right in the centre of the storm, is just the smallest shred of _hope_.

Eliot turns on his heel and follows Quentin outside. He hasn't gotten far, thank God, but the rain has turned from a steady drizzle into an actual downpour, and Eliot has to shout to be heard over it.

"Quentin!" Fuck, he's still crying. "Quentin, _wait!_ "

Eliot can see Quentin's hands clench into fists as his side as he stops. He half-thinks that Quentin won't actually wait, that he'll keep walking - but Quentin turns around, and then he's glaring at Eliot. Anger is the easiest thing to see on his face, but a lifetime never lived lets Eliot pick out the apprehension, the _pain_ behind the anger. "What the fuck do you want _now_ , Eliot?"

"I want to talk to you," Eliot says, coming closer without allowing himself to walk right up to Quentin. "I want to _really_ talk to you. Q, I've fucked everything up."

Quentin frowns - thrown, but not willing to relax just yet. "What are you talking about?"

"I made a mistake," Eliot says, desperate. "After we remembered - the first time. And the second. But what else is new? All I do is fuck up. You shouldn't be surprised. That's why I-- Why I told you we shouldn't be together in the first place. Not because I wasn't happy there. Not because I don't love you."

Quentin flinches. "You haven't been acting like it," he points out, terse. "We had - _fuck,_ Eliot, we had fifty years together, I know how much you can fuck up. And you know how much I can. But you... How the hell am I supposed to believe it when you say you love me?"

Eliot flinches. "I deserve that," he says. "I know I haven't acted like it lately. But you knew, didn't you, at the mosaic? What the hell else was our life together, if you didn't know what you meant to me? I _told_ you."

The anger returns full-force. "No, you _told_ me that I knew how you felt about me! And the only time you ever told me that much was when _I_ said I loved you! I thought I knew how you felt, and then we got our memories back and you told me that you wouldn't choose me." Quentin's tone turns bitter towards the end. "Kinda put all fifty years in a new perspective."

Okay, that's... that's fair. But it still cuts deep. "I'm sorry," Eliot says. "I'm so sorry. Everything I said that day was... bullshit. I was wrong."

"Were you?" Quentin asks, without quite looking at Eliot. "I mean. The only times we seem to work out are when we're other people, or we're trapped together with no way out. We don't... choose each other. When it's us."

Eliot forces himself to stop, to take a breath. "Maybe you're right," he says. "But maybe that's because we're scared, or because we're stupid. I know I'm both of those. I think maybe I'm only _me_ when I'm with you."

"I don't - I don't know what that means," Quentin says, frowning - but he's looking at Eliot, hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, and his expression isn't confused so much as _guarded._

"Fuck, me neither," Eliot says, with a strangled laugh. "I think it means that I didn't choose you under that archway because I wasn't me. Not the me I want to be. The me I was at the mosaic and, fuck, even _Nigel_ \- that's who I want to be. The kind of man you could love. The kind of man who deserves your love; the kind of man who isn't so broken that he can't love you back without being fucking terrified. Because I am. I'm so scared. I'm scared I'll lose you and it'll just-- destroy me. But I'm losing you anyway, and it feels like I'm dying."

Quentin blinks, brow furrowing. "I don't - Eliot, I didn't fall in love with you _at_ the mosaic. I was already pretty damn close to it before we left. Maybe it... cinched it, but. You've always been the kind of man I could love."

Eliot _sobs._ "Not like that," he insists. "Not the way that I-- _Look_ at me. I'm an addict; I'm an asshole; I'm _broken._ I'm selfish. I'm a coward. I'm too scared to let myself try at anything in case I fail; I'm too scared to let myself _want_ anything in case it gets taken away from me. How long did it take me to commit to you, at the mosaic? How many times did I fucking-- cheat on you before you married Arielle? And I didn't even fight for you. I would have walked away from you forever if she hadn't stopped me. So maybe I. I became the kind of man that got a happily ever after with you, but that took _years_. I'm not that person anymore. I don't think I can be. Not unless you wipe my memories and start over and give me a name like fucking Nigel."

Realization is slowly starting to dawn on Quentin's expression, and he looks _stricken._ "Eliot," he breathes, barely audible above the rain. "I - That - " He stops, takes a breath, and then takes another step closer to Eliot. "We didn't define it, what we had before Arielle. We weren't - _together._ You didn't cheat on me. I don't... I know you aren't the same person now, I'm not the same person I was then, either. And I'm not Brian. I'm Quentin - depressed, anxious nerd on the spectrum, who nearly threw his life away and told himself he was doing it to save his friends. I don't want you to be Nigel, or to be the Eliot you were after _years_ in a literal different world."

"Then what do you want?" Eliot asks. "What can I do to convince you to give me another chance? I know I pissed it away last time, but I love you, Quentin. I want to be brave."

"I want you to be _you,_ Eliot," Quentin says, pained. "I don't want Nigel, I don't want what we had at the mosaic. I want you. I want you to talk to me, to not just. Freeze me out when you're scared."

Eliot chokes out another laugh. "That's asking quite a lot, Q."

"I know," Quentin says, and he looks almost regretful, but still determined. "But I can't take the past few weeks again, Eliot."

Eliot hates that he can't just promise Quentin anything he wants - but he needs to be honest. Empty words won't save him now. "You know better than anyone," he says, finally daring to step closer, "how bad I am at this. But I'll try, Q. I swear I'll try."

"I can accept that," Quentin says, and gives Eliot a wobbly smile.

Eliot smiles back, his own more than a little watery, and opens his arms. "Come here, please."

Quentin does so without hesitation, lifting his own arms to wrap around Eliot's neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. "I missed you," he mutters. "Ass."

Eliot's answering laugh is stronger now, more sure of itself, as he presses his wet face into Quentin's sodden collar. "I missed you, too," he tells him, and when he pulls back, it's only to press their lips together.

Quentin practically _melts_ against him, humming into the kiss. "That's nice," he murmurs when they part, "but can we get out of the rain and quit being a rom-com cliche?"

Eliot smiles against his mouth. "I don't know," he says. "I was kind of enjoying acting like a love struck idiot who would rather get pneumonia than remember he has magic." He releases Quentin for a moment, hands working behind his back, and then the rain just - stops falling on them. He gives Quentin one more squeeze. "Let's go."

* * *

There's no one around when they get back to the apartment, which is a relief. Not only are they literally holding hands, something that might prove difficult to explain when they still have yet to really define the parameters of this thing between them, but they also look like drowned rats. It wouldn't take much effort on either of their parts to dry them magically, but Eliot ushers Quentin upstairs and insists that he chase away the chill of the night with a hot shower. Ever the gentleman, Eliot doesn't linger while Quentin gets undressed, and escapes for his own shower when Quentin comes back to _Eliot's room_ , his hair wet and only a towel wrapped around his waist. He deserves a medal for showing such restraint.

He takes his time in the shower, letting the hot water ease the ache in his shoulders, and when he's done, he decides turn-about is fair play. If Quentin wants to get him all hot under the collar by walking about in nothing but a towel, Eliot can absolutely return the favour. As he expected - _hoped_ \- Quentin is waiting for him in his room, dressed in loose, comfortable pyjamas and sitting on the edge of Eliot's bed, but the look on Quentin's face when he meets his gaze makes Eliot feel decidedly underdressed.

"Is something wrong?" Eliot asks, very carefully.

"No, not really, just - " Quentin blows out a breath, one hand running through his still-damp hair. "I think we still have a couple of things to talk about?"

Eliot bites back a scream, or maybe a whimper. Is this his own words coming back to get him? _Let's save our overthinking for..._ "Okay," he says slowly, evenly. "Should I get dressed?"

"I mean, I'm not complaining about the view," Quentin says, a little teasingly. "But maybe you want to at least put some pants on? I don't think we'll be done in like. Five minutes."

"Sure," Eliot says, gesturing to his dresser. "Um. I'll just..."

"Need me to turn my back?" Quentin asks, and though the words are teasing, his gaze is serious.

"Of course not," Eliot says softly, but he keeps his own back turned while he drops the towel and pulls on a pair of silky pyjama pants.

Quentin doesn't say anything else, but when Eliot turns back around, his gaze is soft, fond, and he reaches out with one hand. "Come sit with me?"

Eliot takes his hand, helpless, and lets Quentin draw him over to the bed. "What's up?" he asks, very quietly.

"I just... figured we have the place to ourselves, we should talk about what happened at Blackspire, when you shot the Monster," Quentin says, just as quiet. "And also decide how we want to tell the others about us, but. The other thing is more pressing."

This is not what Eliot was expecting at all. He blows out a slow breath. "What do we need to talk about?" he asks. "I feel like nothing that happened was particularly ambiguous."

"I think we need to talk about the fact that you shot the Monster without coming to try to talk me out of staying in Blackspire," Quentin says. "That you acted like you knew what was best for me - what I _wanted_ \- again."

Eliot sniffs. "Was I wrong?" he asks.

"That's not the point," Quentin says, a little sharply. "The _point_ is that you didn't talk to me before you just - went ahead and did what you wanted."

Eliot looks down at his lap. "I wasn't thinking straight," he admits. "I was... terrified. I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn't think you'd change your mind if I asked you to. I wasn't taking your decision out of your hands because I thought I knew better, I just... knew I wouldn't survive it if you stayed in that hellhole. It was incredibly selfish of me, but I'm not sorry."

Quentin takes a deep breath. "Okay. I... might not have changed my mind, especially if there wasn't an alternative plan," he admits. "So that's a fair point. But, going forward - talk to me? I don't... There's been enough about both of our lives that's been out of our control, ever since we got to Brakebills. Don't make decisions for me, and I won't make them for you."

Eliot sighs. "Okay," he says. "I can be mature enough to agree to that. But I need you to understand that I will always put your safety before anything."

The corner of Quentin's mouth quirks up. "I can understand that, considering I'd do the same with your safety."

Eliot nods. "Then I think there's something else about that situation that we need to talk about."

Quentin tilts his head. "Okay?"

"Why you agreed to stay in Blackspire in the first place."

Quentin sighs. "Yeah, that's - fair." He shifts in his seat, but doesn't let go of Eliot's hand. "Someone had to stay with the Monster," he says. "It was the only way Ora would let us in - if someone took her place."

"But why did you decide that had to be you?"

"Because I was the one who talked to her, and she needed an answer," Quentin says - and then sighs, like he knows Eliot won't be satisfied with that. "And I guess I... figured it would be my ending, of the Quest. Maybe, once magic was back, you'd find a way to get me out, but. Getting magic back was more important."

Eliot just looks at him for the longest moment, taking that in, and then he says, "That's total bullshit."

Quentin flinches, looking down at their hands. "Not total bullshit. She needed to know someone would take her place, and getting magic back was the most important thing."

"Taking her place was _not_ the end of your quest," Eliot growls, suddenly ferocious. "Getting magic back at the cost of losing you was _never_ an option. And don't you dare tell me that it was a price you were willing to pay, because you are far from the leading expert on What Quentin Coldwater is Worth, and it's not your price to pay anyway."

"I'm the one who would've been stuck there," Quentin argues, but it's weak. 

"But we're the ones who would have been stuck _without you_ ," Eliot bites out. "And I don't want to hear any of your 'we're better off' bullshit. You're the beating fucking heart of us, Q. Most of us wouldn't even be alive without you, myself included."

Quentin doesn't say anything for a long moment. "What are you getting at?" he asks, quiet.

Eliot raises an eyebrow, and when he speaks the words are calmer, more level. "Can you honestly tell me this was any different to all the other times you tried to kill yourself?"

Quentin takes a shaky breath. "No," he admits after a long moment. "I can't."

Eliot softens considerably. "Please talk to me."

"I just... I was tired," Quentin whispers. "It was just one thing after another, and - and I didn't know when it would end, or if I'd be able to help if it went on much longer. Being the Monster's chew toy would've been rough, but. It would've been constant, at least, I thought. Maybe I could rest, and just - not have to deal with the rest of life."

"Including me?" Eliot asks, very quietly.

Quentin shrugs. "A little, yeah," he confesses. "It was all just. A lot."

Eliot takes a breath, and his thumb starts stroking the back of Quentin's hand. "Okay," he says. "Then if I have to promise not to act without considering you first, I need you to promise me something, too."

"What?"

"If you start feeling like that again, even if--" He takes another breath, this one slow and steadying. "Even if it's because of me. I need you to tell me."

Quentin squeezes Eliot's hand. "I can do that," he says. "And if you think I'm not, I promise I'll do my best not to be offended if you ask."

Eliot smiles, soft and aching. "I'll take that deal," he says.

Quentin returns the smile, and he shifts so that he can lean forward and drop his forehead to Eliot's shoulder. "Okay," he murmurs. "Can we - lie down now? That was kind of exhausting."

Eliot turns his head to brush a gentle kiss to Quentin's hairline. "Of course, love," he says softly.

Quentin hums a happy little noise, and they take their time getting up and sliding under the covers. Quentin easily fits himself back into Eliot's arms, and it's only once his head is nestled under Eliot's chin that he speaks again. "So, we still kind of - need to figure out how we're going to tell people about us. What we're going to tell the others."

Eliot tenses beneath him. "What do you want to tell them?" he asks.

"I want to tell people that we're together," Quentin says without hesitation. "No hiding, or just. Not telling them. I don't want there to be any mistake."

"Oh," Eliot says. He takes a moment to absorb that, and then all of the tension just-- drains right out of him. "Okay. That's... That's good."

Quentin lifts his head, peering up at Eliot. "Did you... think I didn't want to tell anyone?"

Eliot takes a breath, lets it go. "I... thought it might be more complicated than just. Telling people," he admits. "I thought it might be difficult for Alice to hear, at least."

"No," Quentin sighs. "Alice and I... It wasn't working, and I think. I do still love her? The way you always love someone you were in love with. But she's not who I want to spend my life with."

A delicate shiver passes through Eliot at that, but he looks pleased. "Does she know that, though?" he asks. "I'm not saying she's in love with you. I couldn't begin to guess at how she feels about you - but I can say from experience that being on the receiving end of your devotion is a difficult thing to give up. That, and it might rub salt in the wound a little, the fact that it's... me, who you're choosing over her."

Quentin hides his smile against Eliot's chest. "No, she knows we weren't getting back together," he reassures Eliot. "I think she kind of knew I'd pick you anyway? But once we got started on this quest, after I brought her back from being a Niffin... There's just too much tangled up in how we feel about each other for it to work, for us to be anything but friends."

"What about the fact that you're shacking up with the guy you cheated on her with?"

Quentin shrugs at that. "I don't know, but... It's not like I'm breaking up with her to get with you."

Eliot smiles and kisses Quentin's forehead. "I guess not," he allows. "Well, if you're sure you want to tell them, I'm on board. I don't want either of us to be a dirty little secret."

"No dirty little secrets," Quentin agrees, tilting his head for another kiss. 

Eliot gives it to him, a soft, sweet thing. "So how do you want to do it?"

Quentin considers that for a moment. "I don't think I want to make a huge deal out of it? But I think pretty much everyone is going to notice the fact that we're suddenly talking and all over each other. So they'll probably ask what the fuck's going on."

"I think I should tell Margo first," Eliot offers. "Alone. It won't be pretty."

Quentin raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"She'll probably hit me," Eliot says. "She's been trying to get me to deal with this for... longer than I'd care to admit."

Quentin raises an eyebrow, but he's grinning. "Really? How long are we talking?"

Eliot is suddenly very interested in a crack he's found in the ceiling - but he doesn't lie. "In some form or other, pre-threesome."

Quentin is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is small, shy. "Really? That long?"

Eliot holds Quentin just a little bit tighter. "Even longer," he confesses.

Quentin takes a deep breath. "I think I’ve had a crush on you ever since I saw you on that sign. Like every bi fantasy ever come to life."

Eliot grins. "Oh, I know," he teases. "I've always had a thing for the quiet nerdy types, but you were a surprise, honestly."

”Good surprise?”

Eliot smiles, kisses Quentin again. "Best surprise."

* * *

That night is probably the best night's sleep Eliot's had since they remembered, curled up in bed with Quentin in his arms, tucked against his chest. When he wakes up, however, his arms are empty. The fact that the mattress is still dipped to one side is enough to reassure him - at least until he opens his eyes and looks at Quentin. Quentin is staring at his phone, frowning, and there's a tense, unhappy line between his brows. Eliot only gets the chance to look at him for a moment; before he can say anything, ask what's wrong, Quentin notices he's awake. "Hey," he says quietly; he gives Eliot a smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Sorry, did I wake you up?"

"No," Eliot says, sitting up. "Are you okay?"

"I, um." Quentin sets his phone on the nightstand, reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ear. "I don't know, honestly."

Eliot's concern spikes. "Hey," he says, and reaches out. "Come here."

Quentin goes easily, fitting himself into Eliot's arms like the space was made just for him. "I heard from my mom."

Eliot presses his lips to Quentin's forehead. "What did she want?"

Quentin takes a deep, shaky breath. "I, um. Texted her first. Asked her how Dad is really doing, because he keeps telling me he's fine, but. When magic came back, when we turned the Fountain on... His cancer came back, too."

"Oh my God," Eliot breathes. "Q."

"He's stable," Quentin whispers. "But it's - it's bad. He keeps saying that he's fine, but the doctors aren't optimistic, ever since it came out of 'remission' so aggressively, and - we don't know how much longer he'll be able to live on his own. If he'll even live long enough to have to make the decision."

"Baby," Eliot murmurs. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I haven't even told Julia," Quentin confesses, choked. "I - We had to deal with the Library, and you and I weren't talking, and I was... _Fuck,_ this makes me sound like an awful son, but I was just - trying not to think about it."

"That doesn't make you an awful son," Eliot tells him, with absolute certainty. "You love him; you don't want to lose him."

"I told him about the mosaic," Quentin blurts. "About Teddy."

"Oh," Eliot sighs, like the breath has been punched out of him. "That's... a lot."

"Yeah," Quentin murmurs. "I - I went to go see him, before we went to Blackspire. I told him what we were doing, and that I - I wasn't asking his permission, but I needed to look him in the eye and tell him that this is the choice I was making. Because if we managed to bring magic back for the whole world - he'd die. But it's still... It's still hard."

Eliot holds him closer, kisses the top of his head. "You're incredibly brave."

"I don't feel brave," Quentin mumbles. "I'm terrified, I - I want to go see him, but I don't want to see how bad it's gotten, but I don't want him to die before I get to see him again. I don't want to not be able to say goodbye, again."

Eliot wishes he could tell Quentin that it won't come to that, that his father will be fine and that Quentin has all the time in the world, but he can't. "I know," he murmurs instead. He swallows. "I'll come with you, if you think that'll help. Or Julia will."

Quentin doesn't say anything for a long moment. "I want you to meet him," he says eventually. 

Eliot swallows again. He doesn't... have the best history with parents, both his own and other people's. This isn't about him at all, but Quentin's quiet certainty that Eliot is the kind of person he wants to bring home to his dad is. Well. It's a lot. "I'd love to," Eliot says, and he means it. "Of course I'll come with you."

Quentin smiles, his arms tightening around Eliot. "He'll love you," he says with a quiet certainty. "Might take him a moment to wrap his head around the whole mosaic thing, but. He'll love you."

"Just the mosaic?" Eliot asks, morbidly curious despite himself. "Not the guy part?"

"Considering he caught me making out with Johnny Vernes in the parking lot of my high school in my junior year, _and_ saw my hand down his pants, no," Quentin says dryly. "The guy part won't be hard to wrap his head around."

"Oh shit," Eliot says, laughing. "You were an adventurous baby queer."

"It was almost the end of a football game, Julia had ditched me, and we were in a pitch black corner of the lot," Quentin grumbles. "She was the only reason I was there to begin with, and then she ditched me, then _called my dad_ when I didn't answer my phone. He came over early to pick us up, and when they circled the lot to try to find me..."

"He found you giving some kid a handy," Eliot finishes, grinning. "I wish I could have met that Q."

"He was such a _snot,_ " Quentin groans. "And also would've been way too intimidated by you to do anything more than squeak and faint."

Eliot laughs. "To be fair, Eliot at that age wasn't anything like Eliot now. Maybe I'd have been intimidated by you."

"Oh, really?" Quentin asks, curious. 

"Come on," Eliot says, still trying for glib but falling dramatically shot. "You were unapologetically who you were, even at that age. That would have scared the shit out of me."

Quentin hums an understanding note. "True," he murmurs. "Maybe I wouldn't have just squeaked and fainted, then; maybe I would've made it my goal to be your friend."

Eliot smiles. "My brave little toaster. I would have been enchanted with you."

"Maybe I'd have ended up giving _you_ a handy in a parking lot," Quentin jokes.

"Your dad might've had to adopt me, if mine ever found out," Eliot says, and this is apparently something he can laugh about now - especially if it will make Quentin smile. "That might've made things awkward for us."

"It's not like we would've actually been related," Quentin points out, smiling. "I don't think he would've had an issue with it - I wouldn't have."

"Kinky," Eliot says. "But alas, it wasn't meant to be. And I was plenty enchanted with you when we met, anyway."

"You mean when I stumbled out of the woods, stared at you like an idiot, and then asked if you were a hallucination?" Quentin teases. "Not the best first impression."

"You were unbelievably cute," Eliot assures him. "I ran straight back to the Cottage as soon as I'd dropped you off and told Margo all about you. Well. I didn't _run,_ of course."

"Oh, no, of course not; you were _far_ too dignified," Quentin laughs. 

"Precisely," Eliot says, pleased. He takes a breath. "I guess I'll have to dig out something particularly fabulous if I'm going to meet your father. Is he the kind of man who appreciates a nice pocket square?"

Quentin blinks. "I, uh. I don't think he even knows what a pocket square is."

Eliot chuckles. "Like father like son, then."

* * *

They linger in bed for a while longer, but as soon as they get up, Eliot finds Margo. He's happy to leave Quentin to explain what's happened to the rest of the group, but he owes her this, after everything. "Hey," he says, opening her bedroom door without knocking. "Is this a good time?"

Margo arches an eyebrow from where she's lying on her bed, completely topless and her hand on the waistband of her panties. There's a very recognizable vibrator on the bed next to her hip. "This better be important, Waugh."

"I mean, it can wait," Eliot says, closing the door behind him. "Quentin and I just got together, that's all."

Margo's eyebrow climbs higher. "Really? You two went from not-talking to _together?_ "

"We did," Eliot says, trying to pass his sudden anxiety off as pride. "I'm meeting his dad, like, ASAP."

Margo blinks at that. "Well, good. But also, what the _fuck_ happened? You've been blowing me off for _months_ on this, where the fuck did you find your balls?"

"He loves me," Eliot says, helpless. "He loves me, and he thought I was miserable when we were together, but I wasn't. I was happier than I've ever thought I was allowed to be. So I told him."

"When you were together... what, as Nigel and Brian?"

Eliot takes a breath, steeling himself for the inevitable explosion. "And as Eliot and Quentin," he confesses. "That life we lived at the mosaic, the one you saved us from? We remember all of it."

Margo just... freezes. " _What?_ " she asks, low and deadly. 

"We spent fifty years together. Raised a son. And I told him it wouldn't work between us in the real world," Eliot says. "I know. You can't make me feel worse than I already do."

Margo briefly looks like she's considering trying anyway before she sighs. "I thought there was something weird between you two after that," she mutters, and then gives Eliot a hard look. "You're good now, though? Not going to be that stupid and self-sabotaging again?"

"No," Eliot says. "We're on the same page now. We're... so good."

"Good," Margo says, nodding. "But I don't want to hear all the mushy shit. The _sexy_ shit, on the other hand..."

Eliot snorts. "There's nothing," he says. "At least not in this life. What I remember from the mosaic is pretty amazing, though."

Margo grins. "Tell me all about it."

Eliot grins back. "I would," he says, "if it were anybody else."

"Aw," Margo coos, "that's disgusting."

Eliot laughs. "Trust me, I know."

* * *

Ted Coldwater is, for now, still living at home, although Quentin's mother assured him that he won't be doing so for long. She also warned him that he's mostly living on the ground floor these days, and that he's sick. Sicker than he was last time. It knocks Quentin sideways, that phone call, but he comes to Eliot after, and Eliot sits with him while he processes, lets him get all of his freaking out over and done with before they set off to see the man himself.

Eliot puts on a good front, but he's just as worried about this as Quentin is. For a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that this is going to be incredibly hard for Quentin - but also because he's never done this before. He's really not the kind of person people bring home to their parents, especially not when one of those parents is dying. He's sure he's going to fuck it up, offend Ted or upset Quentin or just. Fail to be anything Ted wants for his son, when all he wants is to see him settled and happy before he dies. But more important than anything is that he needs to be there for Quentin, because this is going to be harder on him than anyone.

So they portal into the alley behind Eliot's favourite off-Broadway theatre, and take the train to New Jersey, and Eliot holds Quentin's hand the whole way. He holds it right up to Ted Coldwater's front door, and then he only lets go so that Quentin can unlock it and let them in.

"Q?" a thin, reedy voice comes from somewhere inside the house, the moment they step over the threshold. "Is that you?"

Quentin swallows, squeezes Eliot's hand. "Yeah, Dad. It's me," he calls back. "I brought someone I want you to meet."

"Well then get in here! I'm decent, I swear."

Eliot gives Quentin an encouraging smile, and gestures for him to lead the way.

Quentin does so, following the hall down to the guest room, taking a deep breath before he rounds the corner. The sight of his dad, pale and thin on the bed, nearly makes him burst into tears then and there, but he manages to swallow them back. "Hi, Dad," he says quietly, leading Eliot further into the room. "How are you feeling today?"

Ted Coldwater's face is thin and drawn, and so like Quentin's it makes Eliot's breath catch. The smile he gives his son is warm, indulgent. "Don't look at me like that, Curly Q," he says. "I'm okay. This is an okay day. How are you?" His gaze finds Eliot, and curiosity glitters in his eyes. "Who's your friend?"

"I'm doing better," Quentin says. "This is... This is my partner, Eliot."

"Eliot," Ted repeats, interested. His keen gaze finds Eliot again, and Eliot feels flayed alive by shrewd assessment in his eyes. Finally he looks at Quentin. "I really hope you don't mean 'partner in crime'."

This startles a surprised laugh out of Eliot. "Well, that too."

Quentin chuckles. "No, I mean, like - partner." He lifts their joined hands, hesitates for a moment, and then - "He was there, on the quest, too."

Ted's eyes widen. "You mean, at the..." He sighs. "The mosaic?"

Quentin bites his lip, but nods. "Yeah."

"Wow," Ted says, and laughs. "Well, then. You'd better both sit down. I imagine you have a lot to fill me in on."

* * *

They spend a few hours at Ted's house before he none-too-subtly kicks them out. Quentin knows it's because his dad doesn't want them to see what's involved with his medications and treatments he has to take every evening, but he still can't help the brief flash of panic, of _what if -_

Eliot's hand in his, never leaving, is a grounding force, though, and Quentin pulls himself together, and pulls his father in for a hug as tight as they both dare. "Love you," Quentin mumbles, face tucked into the crook of his father's neck.

"Love you, too, Curly Q," his dad whispers back.

Eliot gets a hug, too, before they leave, and then they're out on the street, heading for the train station to go back to New York. "That was... good," Quentin says after several long minutes of silence. "Seeing him. I'm glad I got to."

Eliot squeezes his hand. "You can go back whenever you want," he says gently. "It's not..." _Not the last time._

"Yeah," Quentin sighs, lips twitching into a small smile. "You're right. You gonna come with me again?"

"If you want me to," Eliot says gamely. "I like your dad. I hope he liked me."

Quentin's smile grows. "I know he did."

"I also don't have to come with you," Eliot goes on, like he isn't grinning like a lunatic. "You can come by yourself whenever you want."

"Oh, obviously," Quentin laughs. "But I want you to get to know him, too. And for him to know you; know that I'm in good hands."

"You are," Eliot promises, pulling him closer so he can kiss the side of his head. "I have no intention of letting you down again."

Quentin's smile softens, and he wraps an arm around Eliot's waist, falling into step with him. "I know," he murmurs. "I love you."

Eliot smiles. "I love you, too."


End file.
